


Sea Salt and Lavender

by moonflowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Domestic, Family, Fluff, Gen, Guys they're so in love, It's neither of theirs btw, James thinks about the women in his life a lot, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Pregnancy, because that's all I can do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: James hadn't heard the song, nor spared it a thought, for years. He'd had no need of it. But her singing grounded him, reminded him that he'd had a home once, before everything, where his grandmother had sung those same words as she rolled out pastry, where he'd played as a boy, and dreamt of sailing away through those harbour walls and making something of himself. It came as a surprise to uncover something of James McGraw from so long ago, and to find it still intact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing about where I'm from, and I really wanted to give it a go for a Black Sails fic - partly because it's reasonably close to Padstow. Buuuut as it's very unlikely the two of them would go back to England after... y'know, everything, I used it more for inspiration instead. Let's just say they've settled somewhere indiscriminate by the sea.  
> The title is that of my favourite £1.50 scented candle from Primark, because I'm classy.

It was not a remarkable shell by any means. James knew there would be tens, if not hundreds, of near identical ones scattered about the stretch of sand where he and Thomas sat, if he should care to look. But he picked it up all the same, and studied it. The inside was a soft and fleshy pink, the flush of colour at odds with how cool and brittle it was to touch. It faded to white on the outside, smooth under his fingernail, and streaked with a mottled grey brown. There was something pleasing in its unmarred surface, the compactness of it, pale against the sand. Wordlessly, he held it out for Thomas' inspection. He blinked at James for a moment, before his gaze dropped to the shell sitting in the palm of his hand, lip twitching in amusement at what he perceived as James indulging him in his oddities. He took it though, turned it between his fingers, his study of it much swifter than James' before he delivered his verdict. 

"Does it pass muster?" James asked.

"Yes," Thomas slipped it into his pocket. "Yes. Thank you."

James smiled, and looked back out to sea. On occasion, he wondered what they would do with all the shells - both ones Thomas had picked up himself and ones James had gifted him with. They were steadily growing in number, dotted about their home, lined up along the window sills and tucked between books. He also wondered whether Thomas actually approved of the ones he'd chosen, or whether he kept them simply because James had been the one to choose them for him. 

For all James' talk of leaving the sea behind and finding peace away from the shore, it had not come so easy as that. And after so many years in the stifling stillness of the plantation, and the dark months behind cold stone before that, Thomas was more than amenable to the touch of sea breeze on his skin. The stretch of beach they were sitting on was as good as private, only able to be reached by a steep scramble down a barely there path from the house. They were a good two miles along the shore from the town proper, and a tumbling outcrop of rock in the coastline shielded them from view of its harbour. Their little patch of sand was well hidden.  
Their life together now reminded James more of his boyhood by the sea than his time spent upon it as captain or lieutenant. There was a feeling of permanence that put him in mind of his early youth, both lighter and more simple than the years he'd spent bearing either of those titles had been. Though of course, he could never have been so free with his affections at any of those points in his past as he could now, to the point where they'd led him. On the little beach they called their own, he and Thomas could take each other by the hand, kiss, swim, and lay unclothed to dry in the sun, with not a soul present to bear witness or pass judgement. 

"Should we ought to go into town tomorrow, do you think?" Thomas said at length. His fingers had worked their way into the sand, gently clenched and buried to the knuckle. 

James mumbled something non-committal. Yes, was the answer. They'd not ventured the scant two miles or so along the clifftop in over a week, almost two, and they were beginning to run low on a few things. And in honesty, he could have done with picking up some work - he did any number of odd jobs with the fishermen in town, repairs to boats and the like, or any other odd bit of carpentry or mending that was asked of him. They put him in mind of his childhood too; of the surly men who'd stood by the harbour walls and talked in low voices of the weight of their catch and the temper of the sea that day as they mended their nets. There were one or two still wary of him, but he did the best job and got it done in good time with no complaint, which was worth more to them than whatever dubious past they might suspect him of having. 

"I suppose we must," he said. "There are people you need to meet with?"

"Yes. I've finished the copies for Mr Webster, and the months' accounts for Mrs Jenkins." Thomas worked in much the same way James did, but with pen and paper rather than tools, making copies or working through numbers for whomever might require it. His hands might have shook now and then, but his penmanship and his mind were far keener than many of the town's occupants, and they were more than willing to pay someone else to take such tedious tasks off their hands. They also seemed to warm to him more so than James, unsurprisingly. "And I promised to call on Miss Baxter. She has a new book for me, I believe."

"I think she's rather taken with you."

"And I think you're only saying that because I enjoy arguing with her almost as much as I do you," Thomas smiled sideways at him, head tilted against the slant of evening sun. "She also gives me cake, so that actually makes the two of you about even."

"I could make cake," James said, his affront only part in jest. 

"I know you could my dear," Thomas absently patted his knee. "Though her dog does rather dislike me, which is a mark against her."

 

~

 

"Perhaps you would read to me tonight?" James nodded to the promised book Miss Baxter had procured for Thomas, now tucked under his arm as they carried their purchases back along the cliff path to the house. 

"Of course," Thomas said, breath short as he adjusted the sack of potatoes over his other shoulder. They'd started to grow a few things of their own, but neither of their hearts were really in it, and most of their food was purchased in town. "I was hoping you'd ask."

James guessed that Thomas would end up reading most of it aloud to him anyway, wanting his opinion on one passage or another, so he'd just as well request it and hear the text in its entirety. He took great pleasure in having Thomas read to him, after a decade without hearing his voice. During their comparatively short time together in London, they'd spent many long hours together in Thomas' bed, James propped up against the headboard or against Thomas, as the latter read aloud. It was something he'd longed for while they were apart, never thought he'd have again, and subsequently treasured more than ever.

The both of them had managed to pick up more work while in town that afternoon, enough to see them easily through the following months. It was... something James was still getting used to. Not the work, that he knew his way around well enough as he'd never fallen out of practice, but people handing him coin for his efforts and willingly so was an odd sensation. It was a similarly strange sensation for Thomas, for that matter. He'd spent years toiling, but not for money and not by choice. For him to be employed to think again, to chase solutions, to write, and to decide for himself who to perform those tasks for, brought him a sort of joyous relief he could barely keep from his face, sometimes. 

The light was fading as they reached the top of the hill leading up and away from the town, sun thick and orange as it ducked below the water. They came to the crossroads, the other three branches leading the short distance towards their house, away inland, and continuing further along the coast. At the meeting of the path home and the way they'd just come, sat a girl. She was staring fixedly, scowling out at the ocean, not crying, but her face streaked wet and grubby where she'd rubbed the tears away. The two of them stopped short and glanced at each other, uncertain, but she didn't acknowledge their approach. James was all for leaving well enough alone and continuing on their way; if she needed assistance she would surely ask. But after a brief and silent exchange, Thomas' altruism won out, and they stepped off the path.

"Hello," Thomas began carefully as they moved into her line of vision, "are you quite alright?"

"Why yes sir, I'm perfectly fine," she said, voice heavy with sarcasm and overdone politeness, before turning to face him, incredulous, and dropping the act. "What do you bloody think?" 

Her accent gave James pause. Thick as it was with tears, he'd know it anywhere - the drawn out vowels and the overworked r's. It was that of the south west of England, of Cornwall, the voice of the people in the fishing village he'd grown up in.

"Alright. A stupid question on my part," Thomas took her response with a wince and a smile, "I apologise, miss. What I mean to say is, is there something we can help you with?"

Typically, if James were so deeply upset as the girl appeared to be, there were two ways he might have reacted, depending on the situation. Either he would rage, throw himself doubly hard into whatever fight he was fighting that day, inflict the pain he was feeling onto others until he was exhausted and wrung free of any feeling at all. Or he would seek solitude, slink off behind a locked door and let his tears fall unobserved, let them too exhaust themselves, not emerging until his eyes were dry and the desperate sadness whittled away to something bearable, something he could function on. With that in mind, it occurred to him the girl might not welcome their intrusion, if she was anything like him and simply wished to vent whatever sadness was troubling her alone and unobserved. But she did not hiss and spit as James might have done if discovered in such a state, but looked them over, face full of distrust, before heaving a deep sigh and looking back to the sea. 

"No," she said, hugged her arms tight around her middle, "I wouldn't go bothering yourselves, there's nowt anyone can do about it now. Though I doubt they would anyway, the self-righteous, bloody-minded..." she cut herself off, pressed her lips together. "It don't matter." 

"Forgive the boldness of the question, but I'm afraid I'm quite eager to put this sack down sooner rather than later," Thomas said. "Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?"

James looked at him pointedly. It wasn't that he minded the girl taking shelter with them, so much as that they knew barely anything about her - he'd never been quick to trust, and the past decade had hardly helped matters. He also took a small measure of comfort from their familiar back and forth, a well-trodden silent exchange they embarked upon when in company rather than outright arguing. But he was aware it would be fruitless to argue the matter further, and besides it could safely be said they'd both slept under the same roof as more unsavoury characters in the past than a lone, distressed girl.

She frowned, as if only just noticing the lateness of the hour. "I do not," she said, voice firm, readying herself for a fight and fingers clenched in her skirts, "but I'll get along fine."

"I really - "

"If I might just save us all some time," James cut in, and her attention snapped across to him, "if you don't come with us now, he'll only be back up here in an hour's time with food and a blanket to ask you again. I understand your reluctance - in fact I'd be more worried had you not protested - but if you're going to come, please just come now, and save me the hour spent watching him pace the length of the house worrying over your well-being."

The girl's mouth dropped open, and Thomas looked as though he wasn't certain whether to laugh or be offended at James' knowing him so thoroughly. He settled for something in between, a near silent huff of laughter and a shake of his head just caught on the edge of James' vision.

"Are you coming?" he prompted.

"...Alright." 

She got to her feet before either of them could move to help her, head held up high despite her red eyes and blotchy cheek. Her manner reminded James almost painfully of Eleanor when he'd first known her, wracked with uncertainty and determined not to let a soul see it. But he pushed that still sore memory from his mind, and kept an eye on her as she picked her way along the rocky path behind them to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this ages ago with the hope that I'd get a fair bit of it written before I started to post it, but oh no I got impatient.  
> If you'd like a better idea of what the girl's accent is like, maybe look up some Poldark - she'd speak very similarly to Demelza.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter I'm afraid, but little and often is how I roll.

It would have been perfectly understandable had their guest - Morwenna, as she had hesitantly introduced herself as the evening before - slept late that morning. Or it might have been, if James hadn't crossed paths with her in the night. He'd lain awake in the early hours, which was no strange circumstance, as both he and Thomas slept fitfully from time to time, when he'd heard her coughing and retching outside. His habitual thoroughness was ingrained deep enough that he couldn't let himself ignore it, and he'd grudgingly eased himself away from under the warm and comfortable weight of Thomas' sleeping form and gone to check on her. He'd walked into the kitchen just as she was closing the door again, smelling of grass and night air as she wiped spit from the side of her mouth. Her hand was resting on her belly, and she'd loosened her clothing enough for the night for him to notice the slight swell beneath her fingers. She'd gone still when she'd spotted him there, and watched him, tense as a cornered rabbit, as if waiting for reprimand or to be cast out. The idea that she might have thought him capable of that had troubled him. When he'd found his voice again, he'd simply told her to call them if she needed them, and they'd both returned to bed.

As such, it was no surprise to James that she was up early. The stress of her situation, being alone in an unfamiliar house with two men she didn't know, and no doubt feeling bloody awful, was enough to have anyone up with the sun. He'd half expected her to be gone already. But by the time he and Thomas were up and dressed and moving into the kitchen, still slow and fumbling in the odd yellowish light of early morning in order to get breakfast together for their guest, the bed they'd made up for her on the wide bench by the stove was empty. Thomas had of course offered her their bed, but she'd declined and said she'd be happy enough in the kitchen, at which Thomas had promptly dashed off to gather up all blankets and pillows from every corner of the house for her use. But the pile of blankets was rumpled and vacant, and Morwenna sitting outside, once more looking out to sea. 

"Could she not sleep, do you think?" Thomas frowned, watching her through the kitchen window as she sat, unmoving, dark hair lifted slightly by the morning wind. 

"Perhaps not." James hadn't told Thomas about his encounter with her in the night. It was none of his business, and it wouldn't have made a lick of difference to the state of affairs - they'd hardly be asking her to leave because of it. She could inform Thomas under her own steam if she wished, James frankly didn't care either way. 

"Should I go and speak to her, do you think?" Thomas said, in the sort of distant way that suggested he'd already made up his mind, and was voicing the question aloud to himself out of habit more than directing it at James for confirmation. 

"Maybe she doesn't want to speak," James said anyway, thinking on the state he'd seen her in in the night, eyes shadowed and tired in her young face, mouth grim, clutching weakly at her belly.

"You may be right," Thomas said, "but if I don't at least offer her breakfast, I shall go spare."

Though he wasn't sure if she'd accept the offer or not, depending on whether her sickness had followed her through into the morning proper, James agreed that asking her could do no harm. "You go," he said, with a twitch of a smile, "people like you."

Thomas only shook his head fondly, and requested James fill the kettle before stepping out into the morning sun to join the solitary figure in the garden.

Once he'd gathered together bread, honey and fruit and set the battered kettle to heat, James moved back over to watch the pair of them through the little kitchen window. Not that there was much to see - just their two backs made blurred by the poor glass in the window frame, stark against the haze of green and blue, and the odd bright splash of yellow and purple from the wild flowers that clung just as determinedly to the cliff top as Morwenna did. Thomas had left a gap between them when he'd sat - what most would perceive as a polite gesture on his part that James knew was contrived for his own comfort as well as hers. They were talking though; he could just make out the side of Thomas' face turned towards her, hear their voices low and muffled by the walls of the house.

He was back inside before the water was boiling, face tight, not with unhappiness so much as concern. It was the same set his features took on if James pulled a muscle working, the same as the first time he'd seen the scars he'd collected over his decade as a legendary pirate captain, and further back still, on the streets of London, when thin and unkempt children had held out their hands to him for coins. It was an expression that said he was determined to help in some manner, but had yet to figure out what the pertinent course of action might be. If James had had a mind to argue about it, that would have been the point he'd known that he wouldn't have a chance in hell of winning. 

"She's with child," Thomas said as soon as the door was shut, muted so she wouldn't overhear them discussing her. No doubt she'd have guessed they were doing so anyway, but James knew well enough it was one thing to know people were talking about you, and another altogether to actually hear them say the words. 

"I thought as much," James said. 

"Her mother threw her out when she discovered her," Thomas' mouth curled briefly in distaste before he looked away, rubbing his thumbnail back and forth along his lower lip. 

"Hm," James couldn't think what else to say to that. It happened. It had happened to countless girls before Morwenna, and would happen to the same number again. Not that the knowledge prevented him from growing angry at the injustice on her behalf - it took two after all. One more thing society had dug itself into a hypocritical hole over, and didn't want to pick up the tools to dig themselves out again. 

"Of course she must stay as long as she wants, and the baby, if it comes to that. But..." Thomas trailed off, gaze fixed on a cluster of small, tightly curled shells arranged on the window ledge.

"But what?" James prodded.

Thomas swallowed, and looked back up to James. "She reminds me of Miranda."

"She does?" The sullen girl curled in on herself in their garden and staring obstinately at the skyline didn't put James in mind of her at all. But then Thomas hadn't seen her for over ten years, just as James hadn't known her when she and Thomas first married. There had been many different facets to the woman they'd loved, and neither had been given the chance to see every one of them.

"In her way." Thomas said. "Not in her glaring, or her silence - as you know, my dear wife would more often than not cover any discomfort she felt with a smile. And a very effective distraction it was, come to that. Whether the smile in question was one of happiness, sadness, or an altogether false one, depending on what the occasion called for. But Morwenna... it's the way she kept her head lifted, met my eye when she spoke what little she wished to share of her troubles, the determination to find and implement a way out for herself." Here, he stopped himself with a wry smile and a quick glance towards the window. "Though I think in Miss Morwenna's case, the stubbornness may be to her detriment - Miranda was rather adept at finding her way out of trouble by charming people into what she needed of them." James snorted. That part was certainly true. "But our guest, I fear, is the type to refuse most assistance on principal."

"And yet she's still here," James said.

"Yes. We must have done something right, in that case."

"Or we were simply the best scenario out of a host of bad ones." A sentiment James could relate to, having faced it more than once in his illustrious career.

Thomas tutted, but agreed. "Quite possibly."

"I suppose, when you put it like that," James leant back against the scrubbed wood of the kitchen table, work-worn skin of his hands snagging against a rough patch in the grain. He made a note to sand it back to smoothness, when he had a moment. "I can see it. When we met her yesterday, she - she put me in mind of Eleanor."

"Miss Guthrie?"

"Yes." He felt his jaw tighten and set. James had caught Thomas up on the years they'd been forced apart, covering every subject and person and good or bad day he could bring himself to relive, as well as some that he could not. Although it had been months since they'd found each other again, there were still things neither of them could bear to turn over and examine more than once. 

Thomas watched him closely for a moment before nodding, understanding that while James wished to share that particular thought with him, he didn't particularly wish to discuss it any further. "You have no objection to her staying, then?"

"I expect she'll be trouble, in some way or another," James said, not quite serious, "but I'd not see her turned out again."

"Good," Thomas smiled, a quick, fleeting thing, a bird fluttering within its cage. "Though she must have guessed at the nature of us by now - she'd have realised we share a bed at the very least."

"Who would she tell," said James flatly, holding out an arm to him, "and what good would it do her?"

Thomas' smile grew more solid then, something not about to startle and take flight, as it settled into the lines of his face. "No shame indeed, Mr McGraw," he twined his fingers with James', let himself be pulled in closer. "Of all things, I'm glad that one you took to heart."

"Mm," James bowed his head to touch his forehead to Thomas' as he drew him close, "though I suppose we should attempt to show a little caution, while she's with us."

"Probably," Thomas said, cupping James' face with his hands, "but she's not here right now, is she."

"Watch yourself, my lord," James said, delighting in the way it made Thomas pink in the face and his eyes crinkle with good humour, "or I might mistake your meaning."

"Perhaps I want you to," Thomas shot right back and drew in close, his breath on James' lips, but not touching, "lieutenant."

They kissed, long and sweet, the table digging into James' hip and his hands linked together at the small of Thomas' back, bare feet cold on the kitchen floor. In turn, Thomas' hands were light but unmoving on James' face, as though the slightest move might make him vanish. They didn't stop until the water had gone tepid, and the kettle needed to be boiled again before they called their guest inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my housemate, and the amount of times she loudly wondered how more people didn't get pregnant throughout the show.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They have a horse, even though they have about zero use for it in the context of this fic, because I am a weird horse girl and it makes me happy.

Some days later, and Morwenna hadn't yet left them, to James' mild surprise. He said as much to Thomas one morning, while the two of them were taking a moment to see to the horse. Or rather, James was seeing to him, brushing the dust from his coat and easing knots out of his mane as Thomas sat by and read to them both. James couldn't speak for the horse, but he found it soothing to work to, just as he always had.

"Honestly, I thought she'd be gone the next morning," he said as he worked. Morwenna was in the house, letting out the waist of her dress with their meagre sewing kit, and wouldn't hear them talking. The morning was bright and hot, it smelt of horse hair and dust, and good clean hay. He could hear the sea breaking below, and was glad of it.

Thomas hummed and flipped the book shut, stood to rub at the soft and dusty pink skin of Foster's nose. The poor beast's name had been of Thomas' choosing - named for his father's old groom who had apparently always been loudly dubious of Thomas' ability on horse back."I'm glad she stayed."

"Yes," James said, slowing in his rigorous brushing of Foster's flank, "though I wonder how much she really wants to be here."

"Oh?"

"She's clearly not comfortable with us," James straightened up to look along the line of the horse's back and above the points of his ears, to see Thomas watching him, considering. While Morwenna seemed more settled, she was still quiet and hesitant, lips pressed thin and frowning eyes darting between the two of them, as if at any moment they might change their minds and chase her away. Not quite fear, but distrust, and discomfort. And while to some extent he respected her caution, it infuriated James to see her so cowed, when he'd seen the odd and fleeting hints of vibrancy within her. The shuttered look on her face made him think of the rare moments when Miranda had had to admit defeat; when she would lower her chin and keep quiet under the barbed words of Thomas' father. Of the occasions when a young Eleanor had kept her arguments to herself, as of yet unwilling to upset and openly defy her own father, though she knew he was in the wrong. It made his skin crawl.

Thomas snorted, and Foster ducked his head to rub his face hard against Thomas' shoulder, easing an itch. Thomas rubbed the horse's ears with absent affection, not minding the dust and hair Foster was leaving behind on his shirt. "It's been a matter of days, James. Would _you_ feel comfortable?" 

"No," James said honestly, "but nor am I comfortable with her hovering unsure at our shoulders at every moment." Several times, he'd caught her lifting her hand as if to help him with some task or another, only to drop it and retreat a second later. Her tension made him tense, in turn.

"Then perhaps you should speak to her," Thomas said. "She's more similar in temperament to you than me, I think. It might do the both of you some good to clear what air you can, if you're so impatient for change."

 

~

 

_"The first time I met you my darling._  
_Your face was as fair as the rose,_  
_But now your dear face has grown paler,_  
_As pale as the lily-white rose._

_I love the white rose in its splendour,_  
_I love the white rose in its bloom,_  
_I love the white rose, so fair as she grows,_  
_It's the rose that reminds me of you._

_Now I am alone my sweet darling,_  
_I walk through the garden and weep,_  
_But spring will return with your presence,_  
_Oh lily-white rose mine to keep."_

 

~

 

It was fairly late that evening, the sun set and the sky the odd grey blue of dusk in the summer, when James went to fetch Morwenna inside to eat something. She was sitting once again near the edge of the path down to the beach, hair tossed in the wind just as the long grass that grew about her, and singing tremulous but sweet. It touched him unexpectedly to hear a song so distant and so achingly familiar, almost physical, the lilt and fall of the tune in his very bones - though the words themselves were more poignant now than they ever were in his boyhood. He'd had no experiences with which to grant them context back then, only the vague notion that they were linked to sadness and loss. On hearing her sing, he made a decision to act upon what Thomas had said to him that morning, and lowered himself to sit beside her on the grass. 

"I'd long forgotten the beauty of that song."

She startled, but hid it by moving to adjust her skirts, levelling him with a wary frown. "You know it?"

He hummed in confirmation, kept his eyes fixed on the sea as he spoke. "I hail from Padstow. My grandmother would sing it."

She snorted, twisted a length of the wiry brown grass taut between her fingers. "You don't sound it."

"No," James agreed. "I made a conscious effort to train myself out of the accent. I had ambition."

"Right," she looked at him dubiously, "didn't quite go to plan, I'm guessin'."

He barked out a laugh, short and harsh, though with more real humour than he might have felt had he been asked the same thing a year ago. "No. No it did not."

"Me neither," she moved to again rest her hand on her belly, though whether it was to make her point or a simple unconscious reaction, he couldn't have said. 

"Does it - " he stopped himself, started again. "That is, do you sing it in memory of someone?" 

"If you mean do I sing it to remember the blighter who got me in this state then ran off God knows where, then no," she said with venom, "I bloody well don't." She glared out at the ocean, mouth tight and unhappy, and James left her to her silence, waiting. He was hoping that by mentioning their shared place of origin, he'd cracked open her shell a little further, but knew too much prodding too suddenly might cause her to withdraw and snap shut again. That was how it was for him, after all. His patience was rewarded when, a minute or so later, she softened, unfurled, looked down at her hands. "I don't sing it for someone," she said. "I sing it for me. It grounds me, reminds me I'm more than a speck of dirt blown from one shore to another. That I have a place, a past and a future." 

"I see."

James hadn't heard the song, nor spared it a thought, for years. He'd had no need of it - Captain Flint had had no need of it, born as he was from shame, fear and rage. But James was slowly re-emerging, not taking over from, but finding balance with Flint. And James McGraw had once had a home, as inconsequential a place as it might have sounded, where his grandmother had sung those words as she rolled pastry for supper, where he'd played as a boy, and dreamt of sailing away through those harbour walls and making something of himself. Morwenna's singing grounded him too, reminded him that Flint's origin was not James', that his life had begun before he was Lieutenant McGraw, before he and Miranda had sailed from London together that day and he'd started to shape himself into someone else. It was a relief of sorts to uncover something of himself from so long ago, and to find it still intact.

"I don't think I ever said thank you," Morwenna said, voice and body alike softer now, shoulders rounded and limbs at rest, rather than curled in defensively. "For letting me stay."

"I'm surprised you wanted to."

"I meant what I said before," she said, twisting the sea-blown grass hard enough that it snapped, leaving red lines along her fingers, "there weren't anyone else about to offer. But I'm glad it was you that did."

"Mm." As simple as Morwenna's words were, they appeared sincere, and James hadn't been expecting it. He was accustomed, once again, to sweet words from Thomas, but it had been a long while since he'd heard anything so close to a compliment on his character, excepting his work, from anyone else. "Come," he stood and held a hand out to her, which this time, she took, "inside, before we lose the light completely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend a lot of time thinking about smol James in Padstow.  
> The White Rose is a traditional Cornish Folk song, and is way too recent to have been sung in the 1700's, but it's pretty and fitting, and I wanted an excuse to use it. *artistic license* I've only included two verses and the chorus, I didn't think you'd appreciate having to read through the whole thing haa.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post next week, so you get chapter three and four this week ayy.  
> I posted this on my phone so there will be many many errors, I'll have to fix them when I get back.

"On the first morning Mowenna was with us, you said she put you in mind of Miranda," James said, on the twelfth morning of her staying with them. He and Thomas were still in bed, though they'd have to rise soon; the day had dawned particularly close and muggy, the threat of thunder rolling in across the water with the clouds, and he was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot beneath the sheets.

"I did," Thomas rolled onto his front to look up at him, stretching the sleep and aches from his limbs, catlike, pale in the grey morning. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Yes, and no," James said, succumbing and shoving the stifling bedclothes down to his hips for some relief from their warmth, uncovering most of Thomas in the process. He looked up at James, peevish but drowsy, and glanced pointedly over his shoulder down the length of his now bared body, but made no comment or move to replace the sheets.

Since he had spoken to Morwenna, heard her sing the sad and pretty song from his boyhood out on the cliff top, she had softened towards him considerably. She would smile openly when he came into the kitchen in the mornings, roll her eyes when he was being stubborn for the sake of it, speak to him without waiting to be spoken to first. Thomas though, she still seemed wary of. James assumed it was because she, as others sometimes did, had realised that he was of different stock to them, and wasn't sure how to speak to him. But since James' first impression of Thomas had run along a similar vein, he could hardly begrudge her her reluctance to befriend him. They'd even begun to slip in to a routine of sorts - the past week or so, she'd wordlessly began to help with the cooking, standing elbow to elbow at the table with James as they chopped vegetables. It was the smallest of things, but after a only a matter of days, even the slightest of changes could become normalcy. 

"Having her here," James continued, attempting to find the least painful way to put the words in order, "almost feels like the home Miranda and I shared." The 'without you' went unsaid, but he could feel it, the memory of the two of them being without Thomas almost as tangible as it felt right now; he and Thomas without her.

For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to look at Thomas, kept his head back and eyes fixed on the ceiling as he tried to swallow down the grief of losing her, the dull, deep ache of it that never left, only ebbed and rose. But then he felt rough fingers stroking at his wrist, recalled the scant mornings he and Miranda had spent lying together as he and Thomas did now, and reminded himself that the very last thing she would have wanted for the both of them was to think of her and be unhappy. With an effort, he looked down at last to see Thomas watching him, unwavering, as he gently played his fingers along James' forearm, nails snagging soft on the hair.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Thomas said, quietly, treading along the edges of a conversation they'd had many times and in numerous ways. "She was always fastidiously good at running her own home. I imagine it carried over quite seamlessly, despite the change of scale."

"Not quite seamlessly," James said, recalling the first few months in the house in the interior, when Miranda had gotten frustrated with her body not yet strong enough to draw water and dig earth, irritated with James' well meant attempts to teach her basic cooking. "But yes. I can honestly say it was the most immaculate and well-organised place I set foot in for nigh on a decade."

"I'd expect nothing less of her," said Thomas, his expression losing some of its heaviness as he turned the conversation back to the present. "And I also expect she'd be appalled that Miss Morwenna only has the one dress. She's in dire need of some things of her own, if she's to stay."

"Yes," the thought had occurred to him, but slipped away again just as quick in the face of more pressing matters. They hadn't been into town since the day they'd met the girl on their way home. James had gone down to the harbour to work, but not into the village proper. If he had, it might have jogged his memory. 

"I suppose if we're to do things properly she should come into town with us," Thomas said, "I haven't a clue what she'd like or where best to purchase it from." Keeping up with women's fashion had hardly been at the top of their list of concerns.

"We'd best go today then," James said, sitting up, back clicking as he righted himself, and bent to press a quick kiss to the sleep warm skin of Thomas' shoulder, "and get it over with."

"Get it over with?"

"I don't think she'll take kindly to hand-outs," James climbed over Thomas to heave himself off of the bed.

"What?" Thomas twisted his neck around to the other side to watch him gather his clothes. "But we're not - "

"I know," James patted the curve of Thomas' backside in consolation, "but that's probably how she'll see it."

 

~

 

The town suited them well. It was small enough so as not to set them on edge, enough that no one of note who might recognise them should pass through, yet large enough that they were of no particular interest, and could blend into the crowd if they so wished. It was the sort of place always awash with visitors and newcomers, and most kept to themselves as far as the subject of how they came to be there. They were likely to avoid scrutiny on that count. If asked, James would have said he was happy enough just the two of them, but Thomas craved society in some small measure at least, and the town possessed a diverse enough range of inhabitants that his needs were met. Though he could have done without Miss Baxter and her spoiled little whelp of a dog, no matter how much Thomas enjoyed her company.

James' hunch had been correct - Morwenna hadn't been sure about their trip into town at all, insisting that she didn't need their charity, that they'd already done more for her than anyone else just by letting her stay. But then Thomas had suggested they call it a loan if that made her more comfortable, and pointed out that she'd been helping them in the house, freeing up more time for them to get other things done. And James had chimed in to list the practicalities - she would need a few things of her own just so she wasn't constantly letting out her dress, and they thought they could probably stretch to getting her her own bar of soap for God's sake.

"Fine," she'd crossed her arms, and looked more of a petulant child than James had seen to date, "but those are the thinnest bloody excuses I've ever heard. Only a fool'd believe the pair o' you, honestly." She'd stomped off to sweep the kitchen floor with more vigour than necessary after that, leaving James and Thomas to look sideways at each other, holding back wry smiles as they thought on all the fools who had believed them in the past.

She seemed grumpier than ever as they walked along the cliff path into the village, and James was beginning to wonder if there was more to her poor mood than bruised pride. And though one or two people they passed in town obviously recognised her and gave her a sour look, she seemed to pay them no mind, and by the time they'd visited every shop and stall they needed and gathered a few small parcels for her - she'd only let them purchase the absolute minimum on her behalf - her frown was smoothed away, and she appeared to be enjoying herself. Though James wasn't sure how much longer it would last after she saw the length of pretty blue fabric Thomas had purchased for her after her express instruction not to when she'd left the drapers. But it lasted even shorter than that, as it turned out. 

The three of them were in the small but bustling square in the village centre, preparing to head back home, when someone called out to Morwenna. 

"There you are," a group of girls around Morwenna's age sauntered over, looking her up and down with a vicious delight. It was a look James had seen and worn himself enough times to know that their meeting wouldn't be a friendly one. These young women meant business, and wouldn't be put off until they'd had their sport. "Wondered where you'd run off to."

"What business is it of yours?" Morwenna retorted, jaw set and ready for the fight they'd brought to her, so resigned it was as if she'd expected something of the sort. James glanced across to Thomas to see him raising an eyebrow at him - the reason for her reluctance to go back into town was suddenly much clearer. 

"No one's seen you for weeks," one of the other girls piped up, ignoring Morwenna's question, fingering a rather bruised looking poesy of flowers.

"And that's a good thing I say," said another, baring her teeth in what might have passed for a smile in any other situation, "I'm not sure we want to mix with the likes of you."

"I don't think - " Thomas attempted to put an end to things.

"A bit late for that," Morwenna said, curling her lip back in a smile equally threatening, hand coming to rest protectively over her belly, the swell of it noticeable, if you were looking for it. "I know you lot, and I know what you get up to. You are 'the likes of me.' You aren't no different from the rest of us, so there's no good acting all high and mighty - "

"How dare you! You - "

"It's a bloody miracle all o' you aren't in the same state, if you ask me," she said. "It sure as hell weren't good sense."

The girl who'd spoken first looked outraged, though James was finding it hard not to let how amusing he found it all show on his face - Morwenna was finally showing more of the backbone he knew she had, brilliantly so, and he was pleased to see it. But it wasn't so funny when the girl lunged towards Morwenna, giving her a hard shove in the chest that made her stumble backwards and drop her armful of purchases.

"Slut!" she hissed, red-faced with embarrassment and anger, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. James swore and turned his back on the girl in favour of ensuring Morwenna was unharmed. Fortunately she hadn't fallen, but she did look shaken, and clutched harder at her belly than ever. 

"Are you hurt?" he said, quick and quiet, hand itching to reach for a sword that no longer hung at his belt.

"No," she said, gripping his forearm to steady herself, "no, I'm fine."

Once he was assured of her safety, he turned to face the group of hypocrite girls again, anger in him more sharp and fierce than it had been in some time, ready to make it known just how upset he was, cut them to size. But someone else beat him to the mark.

"How dare you," Thomas said, words quiet but clear, and all the more dangerous for their lack of volume. "You come over, unprovoked, for the express purpose of needlessly attacking this girl's character," he said, voice steadily rising, louder and sharp, "then have the gall to be affronted when she acts in kind?" 

James had forgotten - hadn't heard him speak like that since they'd been reunited. They quarrelled on occasion over little things, naturally, but never to the extent that Thomas spoke to him as he was speaking to the group of spiteful girls, full of righteous anger on behalf of another. It was the Thomas he'd known before, the one who'd shouted down his father in the dining room of his own house, before James had dismissed him. 

"But she - " one of the group attempted to fight back, but Thomas wasn't having it.

"There's no excuse you could possibly incite," he interrupted, "that would allow for such a cruel and childish show of behaviour. People like you, looking down your noses at Miss Morwenna for something out of her control is ten times worse and infinitely more destructive than the ridiculous accusations you so flippantly lay out at her feet." He was breathing hard, colour high in his cheeks, but hands steady. "People like you are the reason society continues to fail those who need our help. I'd ask you to apologise, but I fear it would be insincere, and therefore worth nothing."

Thomas was beautiful in such a state. He was beautiful to James in every conceivable way of course, even the parts of him that shouldn't be, but it was the way Thomas had been when he'd first fallen for him - impassioned and angry, determined to see change, make a difference - and so was all the dearer to him for it.  
The girls were staring at him, taken aback by such an outburst coming from such an unassuming looking man, and self-conscious about being the subjects of his ire. After one last stern glance, he turned back to Morwenna and James. 

"Are you ready to go home, Morwenna?"

"Yes," she blinked, looking at him with a sort of confused respect - yet another sentiment James well understood from his early days of making Thomas' acquaintance. 

"And you're quite sure you're well?" he pressed, voice lower now, the few people who'd stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle moving on again. "You wouldn't like to sit a moment - ?"

"Heavens, no," Morwenna insisted, smiling brief and bright at him and James before turning to thank the servant girl who'd helped her to gather up her dropped parcels, with a shy nod and a little pink in the face as she held the girl's arm in gratitude.

Without another moment wasted on the still awkwardly gaping girls, the three of them made their way across the square to the edges of town, towards the cliff path and home. Out of sight of the village and with Morwenna a few paces ahead, James let his hand drop, let his fingers briefly brush and take hold of Thomas'.

 

~

 

Morwenna was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Not the wary, distrustful quiet of when she'd first arrived, but a thoughtful silence, like she wanted to work something through in her head before she spoke about it out loud. She spent a long while sitting by the kitchen window, biting at her thumbnail, running the bitten edge along the grooves of a rough, green grey seashell she'd picked up from where it sat on the sill. 

Later on though, she made them all tea, and took her cup to sit by Thomas instead of James, as was her habit. He was busy getting in a second reading of Miss Baxter's borrowed book before he returned it, and didn't notice her closeness for a minute or two. 

"What is it you're reading?"

He blinked at her, startled to be pulled from where he wandered deep within the pages, small, pleased smile lifting the edge of his mouth. Instead of answering, he turned back to the book, and read the passage he'd apparently been mulling over aloud:

"Fortunate are they whose life has no taste of evils.  
For those whose house is shaken by the gods, nothing  
of ruin is left out as it steals over their lineage.  
As the darkness from 'neath the sea,  
when it runs over the swell of the main  
before the storm-laden winds of Thrace,  
rolls from the deep  
dark sands and headlands, pounded  
by the winds, roar mournfully."

Morwenna looked thoroughly unimpressed. "Sounds bloody miserable to me."

Thomas laughed, louder and more freely than he often did since James had found him again, face creasing and shoulders lifting. "I suppose it is."

"Then why read it?"

"A friend thought I'd enjoy it," Thomas said, "knowing my taste."

"That and the fact that you'll read anything put in front of you," James added from across the kitchen.

"Thank you for your input," Thomas said dryly, before turning his attention primly back to Morwenna. "It's called Antigone."

"Well, good or not, I shall have to take your word for it. My reading's not so good as it might be." She said it without shyness; a simple statement of fact.

James watched the pair of them, tentatively warming to each other after days of uncertainty, and grinned into his tea. 

"I could help you to improve?" Thomas said, the most unsure James had seen him in a good while. "Only if that's what you want of course, I don't mean to imply - "

"No," she cut him off, leaning forward eagerly where she sat, "I'd like to get better. I'll complain about it something chronic, I give you fair warning. But I'd like that."

"Alright," Thomas nodded, and she nodded back before taking what was left of her tea to go and sit outside in the last of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many different translations of Antigone omg and I didn't have the time to find one I liked best, so this one will have to do for now until I can search out one a bit less weird sounding.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week on my sad headcanons about Thomas.  
> Also this is fucking unreasonably fluffy.

Though they never asked it of her - they'd managed well enough by themselves for a long time, both separate and apart - Morwenna soon began taking care of more and more little things about the house before James or Thomas could get to them. And after all trace of her surliness towards Thomas was gone, it wasn't long before the three of them fell into an easy routine, each with their own set of daily things to see to: she and James would cook, she and Thomas would clean, and Thomas and James took care of things such as fetching water and chopping wood for the stove, unwilling to let her do so in her condition, despite insistence that she could.

Though it wasn't a sudden turnaround by any means, one morning it came to James' attention just how firmly she was woven into their life in the small house by the sea. Her own little bits and pieces that she had accumulated over her time there were slotted in among their furniture and books and Thomas' seashells. There was the tea set Thomas had taken upon himself to acquire, after deciding they really couldn't keep making do with the bashed about and mismatched things they shared between them anymore, simple blue and white china sitting neatly on the dresser. There were the bunches of lavender she dried in the kitchen - that Thomas was inclined to duck underneath because of his height, much to James and Morwenna's amusement - the sweet little twists of it she left in the drawers with their clothes. She pressed flowers too. She selected them from the side of the road and along the clifftop, and shut them between the pages of books, while Thomas asked her with genuine interest why she had chosen each bloom in particular to preserve.  
It now well and truly resembled the odd sort of domesticity James and Miranda had shared when he wasn't at sea. It was less painful to think on of late, which he believed she would have approved of, though he couldn't help but let the occasional sharp twinge of sadness bleed through at her absence. He and Thomas started to share to odd story of her with Morwenna, carefully of course, citing her only as Thomas' late wife and saying little of their position in society, but it felt good to speak of her again in any measure they could manage.

 

~

 

Neither James nor Thomas much cared for the thought of maintaining a garden or growing food. James because he was very much of the sea, and for all his practicality really didn't have the faintest fucking idea of best ways to go about doing such things properly. Thomas because he'd more than gotten his fill of such tasks, and had never held any interest in working the earth before he'd been forced into doing so. But primarily they forwent it because they didn't need to - they weren't wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but they could afford to purchase all they needed to get by. No, the reason why they had decided to dig over a patch of grass outside their home for use as a small herb garden - with the intention of moving on to vegetables later if all went well - was Morwenna. She had expressed a wish to grow her own lavender for drying, that it might be pleasant to provide some measure of it herself, rather than buying it. That along with the way she'd spent long minutes poring over the herb seller's cart when they'd last gone into town together had sealed James and Thomas' fate.

It was a sunny morning, the two of them standing side by side, sweaty and earth-smeared and shovels in hand, the wind coming in off the sea thankfully blowing off some of the heat. Morwenna was hanging out washing to dry, slowed by the growing swell of her belly as she bent to pick a shirt from the basket, huffing as the breeze lifted and buffeted it in her face as she pinned it to the line. Sails in the wind, James thought as he watched her, white fabric billowed taut against the unbroken blue of the sky. 

Thomas was humming under his breath as he worked, a habit of his while he was concentrating, the familiar lilting tune of Greensleeves. He had never used to. James had asked once why he did now, not expecting an answer, or at least not immediately. Miranda had used to sing it to him, he'd said. She'd found the song amusing for some odd reason of her own. She used to pluck him out of his seat at his desk when she thought him working too hard and twirl him about the room, all the while teasing him about his commitment to his work. He'd started to sing it to himself, Thomas had said, not long after arriving at the plantation. Partly to keep his mind on something other than the task at hand, and his fate, partly the fanciful notion of she and James taking his hand and twirling him away from his work once again.

Once James noticed him singing it that morning as they worked and recalled the reason he'd first fallen into the habit, he couldn't bear the reminder of all those days and years Thomas had spent with that tune running through his head and his lips, and no one to take his hand and pull him away from it. So he set aside his spade and did just that, Thomas blinking at him in confusion at the interruption, dazed, as James took his spade and grasped his hand, each palm as rough and dirt-ingrained as the other. Thomas had stopped humming when James had startled him out of it, and so James began to hum it to him, low and not quite in tune, bringing his other hand to the small of Thomas' back for balance. Once he realised what James was doing, Thomas laughed, a small, choked sound, and hummed along with him. James grew bolder in the face of Thomas' smile, sang louder, span him about as Miranda once had, the two of them tripping and stumbling in the fresh dug earth. A far cry from the grand rooms in which they'd once danced in in London, eyes following each other about the room over the heads of their long since forgotten partners. Their song soon broke to laughter, their steps faltering and stopping altogether when Thomas caught his foot on one of the spades and tipped further into James' arms, knocking the breath from him. They laughed all the harder for it, and in the rare moment of playful indulgence quite forgot they weren't alone, as James hauled Thomas in close to kiss him. Some moments passed, the two of them resting their foreheads together and swapping small and quiet kisses between their ebbing smiles, before someone cleared their throat. 

"Shit," James broke away Thomas, though he kept one hand clasped tight onto his forearm, unable to separate completely, as the pair of them looked across the grass to where Morwenna was watching them, empty washing basket on her hip and an unreadable expression on her face. 

_Fuck._ They'd been so fucking careful up until then. James was aware it hardly mattered if she figured them out - as he'd said to Thomas on numerous occasions, what good would it do her to out them - but if she hadn't, it wasn't how they would have wished to come clean. It was hardly bloody subtle, not that either of them were particularly so at the best of times. And for all she'd grown more comfortable around them, who could say how she'd react? They stood in silence, unmoving, James' thoughts dashing madly about his head, until she surprised them both by bursting into laughter. 

"Lord, to see your faces," she said, breathless with her giggling, "did you truly think I hadn't guessed?" 

"We - weren't certain," Thomas said, pink in the face as she continued to grin at them. 

"It was hardly any of your business," James said, a little sharper than he'd meant to, feeling foolish for being so thoroughly caught out. She paid him no mind.

"I aren't simple," she said, hand on her hip, "I've never seen anyone so sweet on each other as the pair of you. It's clear as day to anyone with eyes in their head who takes a moment to look." She gave them one last knowing smile before heading back into the cool of the house, leaving James and Thomas glancing sheepishly at each other. 

"Well," Thomas said, "she certainly has us all figured out."

"Of course she does," said James, oddly proud at a further show of her quick wit. He really shouldn't have been caught off guard by her having seen it - from the moment they'd chanced upon her, he'd known she'd be more than a match for them.

They picked up their spades to finish digging the promised garden for their ever surprising guest, sea rushing at the shore far below them and filling the air with it's spray. 

 

~

 

After dinner spent with Morwenna smirking at them every chance she got across the kitchen table, the three of them walked down to the beach, both James and Thomas keeping an eye on her as she eased her way down the steep path, despite her impatient assurances that she could manage.  
The sun was barely still in the sky, a streak of vibrant orange just settling in behind the the sea, but it was warm enough still to be comfortable, just light enough to see by. The wind had dropped since the morning, but cool air still blew up to the shore with the waves, leaving the grit of salt on their skin. They removed their shoes to walk across the sand, and James watched, content, as Morwenna delightedly sank her toes into it, as Thomas stooped to judge whether one shell or another was worthy of joining his collection. At Morwenna's encouragement, they walked along the edge of the water, chilled spray and foam dashing up their legs as the sea rushed about their feet. It was foolish of James to ever think he could have left it behind. 

They sat a while at the bottom of the cliff face, sheltered by it as evening drew in in, oranges and pinks of the flowers that grew in the rough and scrubby grass on the rocks dotted bright in the dusk. They talked of nothing in particular, until James noticed that Morwenna had grown quiet where she sat upon a rock, hair blown dark across her cheek and picking at her fingernails. 

"Are you quite alright, Morwenna?" Thomas asked before James could, no doubt thinking as he was of their unintentional show of affection that morning, and if she was more affected by it than she'd let on. "You look troubled."

"What if I can't do it?" she said, words quick and tumbling.

"Do what?"

"Be a mother," she bit her lip, looked over at them worriedly. "Mine weren't much good, and what if I'm no better."

"Nonsense," Thomas said encouragingly, "you'll be wonderful."

But still she looked unconvinced, and James knew that although Thomas' words were well meant, they would be of little help. "Let me tell you about a woman I knew," James said. 

"Miranda?" Morwenna asked, clearly having listened well to the scattering of well-thumbed memories the two of them had shared with her.

"Not this time," James said. "Her name was - _is_ \- Madi." He felt Thomas shuffle closer to him on the sand, knowing it still hurt him to speak of it all sometimes, one of those aching subjects they avoided if they could manage. "Her mother was a queen, a great lady also. Both of them brave and clever, as mighty a force as the ocean and as steadfast as the rocks it beat against. As you might guess, they butted heads. Sometimes over trivial matters, but more often, things of... greater importance." He paused, and Thomas leaned more heavily into his shoulder. "Their relationship as mother and daughter was not an easy one, perhaps more difficult than most. But it was all the more strong because of it. And you are just as strong as they, Morwenna."

She smiled at him, small and tremulous, but the tension that had sat across her shoulders and made her curl in on herself moments ago was gone. "You think so?"

He nodded once, clear and definite, and held her eye. "I do."

"Then I will be," she said, face wan in the dim blue light but set firm in determination. Then, "I think I'd like to go to bed. Though I doubt this little beggar'll let me get any sleep," she tapped her belly.

"Alright," James stood, held out a hand to help Thomas do the same. He didn't let go afterwards, and they walked back across the beach hand in hand towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a whole third longer, but the last part really didn't fit so I cut it... hopefully it'll fit better somewhere else.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look the horse isn't pointless yay.

James had spent the past few days in the next town along the coast, assisting the brother of one of the fishermen he knew to salvage a boat as good as wrecked in a bad storm the week before. He'd enjoyed the work for the familiarity, found the quiet company of the men he'd worked alongside comforting, but he was glad to be heading back. Morwenna was as big as a fucking house and he hadn't been all that eager to leave her and Thomas behind. The latter kept shooting her nervous glances as if she would burst at any given moment. While Miranda had certainly enjoyed Thomas' affections, she'd never wanted or needed her husband to hover over her in concern, and it was touching and amusing in equal parts to see him so anxious for Morwenna, so many years later. It had put him in mind of Eleanor again to see her so, tutting impatiently and waving him away, as she'd used to when people were bothering her over trivial matters.

He and Foster were not far from home, the horse picking his way along the familiar track with barely any input from James, equally keen to get back as his master. It was another hot morning, as they invariably were, the sun making his face feel tight and shirt stifling, the smell of dust and horse thick in his nose. The sea lay flat away to his left, fading almost seamless into the sky, not a breath of wind to stir either. Morwenna would no doubt be uncomfortable and short tempered in the heat. 

As she'd begun to relax, to let herself grow happy in James and Thomas' home, James' thoughts had once turned to Abigail Ashe. Not the fearful and quiet girl she'd been when he'd met her first, but the girl in a pale blue dress, laughing freely as Miranda had spun her dancing about his cabin as they'd made their way to Charlestown, once she'd eased enough to drop the pretence of coldness for her own protection, and let herself be a girl again for a moment. It had not been a pleasant journey by any means, plagued as he was by the past and the uncertainties it'd dragged up along with it, but the odd moment, as close to happiness as he could expect, had broken through nonetheless. Morwenna must have been around the same age as Abigail, the inbetween age when a child has become an adult, sure of themselves for the most part, but still taking the odd, faltering step back for guidance. Guidance which, somehow, James had been the one expected to provide. Lord, he felt old.  
He wondered at himself for likening this one girl to so many of the other women he'd met in his time - perhaps it was just that the few he'd cared about strongly enough, he'd done so for the same reasons, the same qualities he'd seen in all of them. They were all of them brave, all strong in their own ways, and he found himself grimly hoping that Morwenna's end was a happier one than most other women he'd known.

 

~

 

When he at last turned from the main track to take the winding path to their house, neither Thomas or Morwenna were in sight. But then, the morning was hot, and it was likely the pair of them were sitting in the cool shade of the kitchen, reading perhaps, as Morwenna had been doing more and more often under Thomas tutelage. The herb garden was thriving, small green plants stout in the dusty earth, sweet and sharp and fragrant as the sun warmed their leaves. Honestly, James had wondered if she'd prove just as ill suited to the task as he and Thomas were, but she'd surprised him. He saw to Foster quick but efficiently, keen to get back inside to them both after his days of absence. 

They were not in the kitchen after all. His eyes fell to rest on the lavender stems scattered haphazardly across the kitchen table, the water jug upturned over the floor, and knew something wasn't right. Before he could think any further on it, a muffled but unmistakably pained shout carried through the house, and he dashed through into their bedroom without hesitation. The sight that greeted him was one he'd known he'd be faced with at some point, and yet was still somehow a surprise to him. Morwenna was lying upon his and Thomas' bed, face red and creased in pain, breathing hard and gripping Thomas' fingers as he knelt beside her. 

"James," Thomas looked relieved beyond belief to see him standing there, and it might have been funny if not for the anguished sob that Morwenna gave when she noticed him too, "thank God you're back." 

"Not a minute too fucking soon, by the looks of things." Some strange, old courtesy left over from his Navy days kept him from cursing in her company all that often, but that day was a special occasion, so fuck it. James forced himself to move across the room to take Morwenna's other hand that she'd lifted, shaking, towards him. "Has no one been sent for?" He felt the old familiar habit to take command growing stronger, but in all honesty, he didn't know what more could be done.

"Yes," Thomas said, "I sent a boy into the village to fetch Mrs Gale, but that seems an age ago now." He frowned, a mixture of irritation at a job not being done right, and in concern at the way Morwenna groaned and gripped their hands tighter. Under any other circumstance, James would have gathered him up and smoothed it away with a word or a kiss. 

"Bloody right it does," Morwenna ground out between her teeth, forehead sheened with sweat as she shifted restlessly against the pillows, squeezing their hands harder than ever as pain wracked her body again. "Oh Christ!"

"Hush," James said, pushing her damp hair back from her face, "It's alright."

"Oh, hush yourself, James."

He saw Thomas belatedly trying to smother a smile, and sent him a half-hearted frown across the bed. "Right. Sorry."

"You've no doubt guessed by now," Thomas tried instead, "but my wife and I never had children. It was a choice, of sorts."

"A bloody good one," Morwenna groaned.

"Perhaps," Thomas said evenly, "but I admit it crossed my mind now and then how she would fare all the same." James watched him with interest; it wasn't something they'd spoken about in much depth before. "But I've no doubt she would have done beautifully, just as you will." 

To James, it seemed the same sort of platitude women the world over would have had said to them on the imminent arrival of their child, but Morwenna seemed to soften slightly at Thomas' gently spoken words, so he could hardly fault them.

"Just keep talking to me," she said, voice tight with pain, and closed her eyes.

They took it in turns speaking to her after that, sharing stories of London, of Miranda, James of his time at sea and the places he'd visited, though he carefully refrained from mentioning the morally grey areas, spoke of the things he'd seen rather than things he'd done. As he and Thomas drew forth tales of their pasts in the hopes of distracting her from the hurt, it occurred to James that Morwenna, and the birth of her child, would become one of those stories later on. She was her own tale, her own person. He'd been comparing her all the time he'd known her to other women he'd known before - all lost to him now. Perhaps for the very reason that he was afraid of losing her too, he'd simply attributed their qualities to her instead of letting himself know her properly. 

"I'm glad you're both here," she panted out between the pains, pulling James out of his thoughts, "I couldn't have done this alone."

"Us too," Thomas said.

They were interrupted then by the eventual arrival of Mrs Gale and her daughter from the village. Mrs Gale had apparently delivered any number of children to the world in her time, thanks to her being sensible enough to put any judgement about the parenthood of the child to one side in favour of seeing both mother and infant safely through labour. "How are we?" She said the instant she'd blustered into the room, before she unceremoniously shooed James and Thomas out of it. 

"Go on," Morwenna said when they hesitated, James and Mrs Gale glaring at each other with equal determination, "she'll see me right."

They left the room, James sending one last dark look the way of Mrs Gale to ensure she knew that if she did not see Morwenna right, she'd be paying for it. In truth though, he was more relieved than irritated by her dismissal of them - he would have stayed had Morwenna asked it of them, but he had no real wish to bear witness to the child's arrival. Though it might have been worth staying in the bedroom with her if only to prevent Thomas' anxious pacing about the kitchen.

"It won't make the child arrive any sooner," James said dryly after Thomas completed his tenth circuit around the kitchen table. Though really, it was only years worth of habit, of not letting his concern show, that kept him seated and prevented him from joining Thomas in his fussing.

"I know that," Thomas said, more agitated than ever, as he stepped over to the window ledge, ran his fingers over the shells sitting there, catching on the rough, spiked surface of one James had found him not long after they'd begun living there. "But I cannot abide to sit."

"Then sit with _me,"_ James said quietly, seeing the moment Thomas paused in his looking over the shells, caught off guard by the request. He sighed, and moved to sit by James on the low bench Morwenna had slept on before it had become too uncomfortable. James found he didn't know what else to say - he hadn't been expecting Thomas to actually heed his words.

"I can honestly say," Thomas said as he leant against James' shoulder, twisting a lavender stalk between his fingers, "that this situation is one I am entirely unprepared for."

"Mm," James agreed, putting an arm around Thomas to stroke absently at his hair and the back of his neck. He'd never wished nor expected to be a father, and so the idea of him waiting in such anxiety over the birth of a child was a turn of events he hadn't foreseen. "She'll be alright," James said, another platitude he wished he hadn't, but there was nothing more he could think of. He wondered when it was he'd become the sort of man to say such things, and took Thomas' hand to stop it fidgeting, brought it to his lips. His fingers smelt of the crushed lavender he'd wound about them.

"Will she stay with us, do you think?" Thomas asked. His other hand had drifted down to pick at a loose thread at the hem of James' shirt. James may have persuaded him to sit, but he couldn't stop his restless movements altogether. 

"For a time, at least," James said. "I can't imagine she'll want to move herself and a newborn right away." 

"Odd isn't it, how quickly she became such an integral piece of our life."

"Not particularly," said James. In truth, he agreed with Thomas, but he had a point to make.

"Oh?" Thomas turned his head awkwardly to the side to look at him, eyes made a watery blue in the bright sun coming through the window. 

_"You_ became an integral piece of my life the very day I met you," he said, "so it's not an entirely new experience on my part."

"Of all the men they could have sent to me, lieutenant," Thomas said, stretching further back so his lips met James' with each word that fell between them, "I still find it hard to believe it was sheer luck they sent me you."

"Thomas," he said, throat rough, "you know I - "

The rest of his sentiment was cut off by the shrill and tremulous cry of a newborn baby coming from the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really not that fussed about babies in real life, but apparently it makes me happy to throw one into the lives of fictional men, so there's that.  
> Also everything I know about labour is taken from BBC dramas.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little epilogue, of sorts.

"Will he like this one, d'you reckon?" Morwenna held a small, tightly curled orange shell in her palm, still gritty with sand.

"I think so," James said, though in truth what it was that made a shell worth keeping in Thomas' eyes still escaped him. 

"Good," she grinned, and tucked it into her apron.

"Does it make you think of your home?" James asked Morwenna some time later, as the two of them walked along the shoreline. Thomas was up at the house, keeping watch over the baby girl - Miranda, as Morwenna had hesitantly asked permission to name her - to give her mother the chance for some fresh air.

"Just _my_ home?" Morwenna asked with a raised eyebrow, dark hair tossed about her reddened face by the wind off the sea. "Not yours, too?"

"I stopped calling England my home a long time ago," James said with as little feeling as he could manage.

"Oh?" she said lightly, clearly wanting to know but unwilling to press so obviously for answers. James owed her no explanation, and he could hardly disclose his sorry tale in its entirety... But she knew a little of it already, and he found himself wanting to share a little more of it with her. 

"As you can guess, mine and Thomas' relationship was not welcomed by his father, on its discovery. We were... separated, more abruptly and cruelly than I can - " he paused, shaken by its memory still, after all the time that had passed and old wounds scarred over. He tightened his jaw, and continued. "I cannot call a nation that would do such a thing and claim it the right thing my home, Morwenna."

"I can understand that would leave a bitter taste," she said, treading carefully, "but I don't mean on paper. I mean in here," she tapped his chest, "in your heart and your bones. You mean to tell me that if you went back to Padstow, and stood on that harbour wall and looked out to sea, felt the spray on your face and heard the gulls a'crying, that you'd feel nothing?"

"I never claimed I wouldn't," James said stiffly. 

"But?"

"But - there was a time I believed Thomas dead, and I loved him still. England is dead to me, and likewise that will not change the way I feel about it," he said. "I'll not go back." Lord knows he'd had enough time to think on it to be sure. "But you're right in one respect - I do look fondly back on those years of boyhood, despite anything that's tarnished the memory since." He'd been closer to safety and contentment there than he'd ever been, until he'd found Thomas again. He might have called the brief months spent with the Hamiltons in London the happiest time of his life, but it had been far from safe, and he'd been too worked up, too passionate, too desperate for his lovers to have claimed to be only _content._

"I feel the same about my time as a child," she said, and James barely held himself back from remarking that she was still, "it were far from perfect, down right miserable in places, I'm sure. But it's the happier days I remember. It keeps me from losing my wits."

"Understandable." More than once, James had lost himself to dark and hopeless thoughts. He'd had precious few happy memories to keep him moored in sanity, and even then he'd needed Miranda's help to stay afloat.

"Were there many mines about Padstow?" she asked from nowhere, leaving James slightly thrown by her sudden seeming change in topic. 

"No," James said, "it was based in fishing, rather than mining." Most everywhere was based in one or the other, in the south west of England. 

"There were plenty of mines all about St Agnes," Morwenna said. "My old pa took me and my brothers to see the one he worked up close once, a'fore he died. He told us not to go in, mind, in case we got lost or hurt and never came out. I went in anyway."

"Of course you did," James said, and earned himself a swat on the arm.

"All that rock just sitting there above me, and below and to the sides, so thick that to start with I was afraid I'd not be able to breathe," she said. "It's the same way I feel when I look out at the sea - vast and old and immovable. But I felt comforted by it. It felt like... not home, but something older, stronger, like my very bones had been carved from the rock. Fanciful I know, and my ma laughed outright when I tried to explain it to her. But my point is, Mr McGraw, that we can find comfort in the most odd of places. Though I'd wager you and Thomas and my baby girl are a slightly more conventional comfort than a hole in the ground."

"Only very slightly," said James with a wry smile, and she took him, laughing, by the arm so they might walk through the small waves rolling up the shore.

 

~

 

"Hush now," Thomas said softly to the unsettled baby girl in his arms, "your poor mother needs her rest, whether you like it or not."

James was sitting at the kitchen table, book in his hands, as Thomas paced the length of the room, hoping to soothe the baby. In truth, he hadn't looked at the book once in the last ten minutes - he was too busy watching them. 

"And I'm afraid this is just as new to me as it is to you, so there's no use fretting about it," Thomas continued, though she paid him very little mind, and kept on fussing, overtired and quite possibly about to start crying again. James couldn't pretend it didn't grate on him somewhat, on long nights when they were all of them desperately tired and nothing could stop her screaming. But those nights were rare, and more often than not she slept long and quiet. "That's just the way it is, I'm afraid."

"You realise she hasn't the faintest fucking idea what you're saying."

"Shh James, don't curse in front of her."

"Jesus."

"What did I just say?"

"Thomas, my love, you tell her the most gruesome stories imaginable - just last night you were prattling away to her about the sacking of Troy - and I'm not permitted to say fuck?"

"Those stories are educational."

"Of course," James shook his head, and pretended to go back to his book.

Thomas had said it was new to them, but it was getting less so by the day. At times, if Morwenna was knackered and Miranda wouldn't settle, one or both of them would take her, rock her and read to her until she fell asleep. They were both embarrassingly besotted with her in their own ways, though James tried to hide it under his gruffness a little harder than Thomas did. In his turn, Thomas was far from knowledgeable, almost downright awkward, if such a thing could be imagined, but he made up for it in enthusiasm, eager as he was to help. Fuck, James loved him more than ever on those drowsy and heavy grey afternoons, listening to him chatter softly away to a half-asleep baby about Greek philosophy. 

She quietened down before long, content to grasp Thomas' finger and blink up at him with sleep-heavy eyes. "I've got to go into town shortly, I'm afraid," he said softly, not wanting to unsettle her again, "I need to see - "

"Mr Webster, I know," James said. "Hand her over then."

"She's a baby james, not a bottle of rum," Thomas said, but smiled as he gently eased her down into James' arms. She stirred at the movement, face scrunching up in her sleep. "I'll see you this evening, my darlings," he ducked down to press a brief kiss to James' lips before taking up his bag and stepping out through the front door, closing it soft behind him. The baby was still upset by the jostling, and James could hear the beginnings of a good and proper cry starting to surface. Keen to cut it off before it began, he eased her down to lie against his chest, and sang soft and low the song his grandmother used to sing to him when he was taken ill, and they'd sit together and watch the sea from the window, her hand smoothing his hair. 

 

_I love the white rose in its splendour,_  
_I love the white rose in its bloom,_  
_I love the white rose, so fair as she grows,_  
_It's the rose that reminds me of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last bit was disgustingly fluffy, good grief. For Thomas with a baby feelings, I highly recommend that episode of Whitechapel where RPJ holds a baby for like two seconds. I lost my shit.


End file.
